I'd Rather Be Mauled by a Nundu then Admit I Love You
by God Of Cake
Summary: Harry Potter gets thrown back in time to the 1940's by a strange creature claiming to be fate, and against his better judgment decides to go to Hogwarts to check out the grandparents of the people he went to school with, and more importantly, observe the baby dark lord. Harry didn't expect that Riddle would be so fascinated with him, but he supposes their could be worse outcomes
1. Chapter 1

Harry often wondered if he would be a dragon if wizards had magical animagus forms. It wasn't because he was a parselmouth- a skill which to the surprise and dismay of many schooltime housemates and friends alike, stayed with him after his short lived, be it untimely demise. Harry had conceded to their protests at first, and rarely used the skill. However Harry had traveled the world in the short years after Voldemort's defeat, and leaned of magical communities that revered and even worshiped those who spoke the language of serpents.

In Egypt, the Master of Death had been astounded by the sheer amount of parselmagic tomes and Harry had done his best to absorb all he could. Healing spells, defense spells, twisted cursus that Harry would have once never dared looking at he studied in relish. Harry had gone to Egypt first, originally to track and understand the beginnings of Horcruxs. He had thought that if he thoroughly understood them, that he could gain some deeper understanding to _why_ Riddle had twisted himself into the broken, crazed being known as Voldemort. Because _surely_ , in a world of magic and the impossible _splitting ones soul_ couldn't have been the only way to secure immortality. Harry had not, to his chagrin, found any new information on Horcuxs- Horcuxi? He wasn't even sure what the proper plural was.

He did find, after being dehydrated, lost, magically exhausted, and chased by a bloody Nundu _that he swore were local to East Africa, not North-_ that parselmagic was rather prudent at healing. Harry had been too tired to apparate further than the he had, the desert was if anything sandy, unforgiving, and _really fucking big._ He was laying down in the shade of one particularly spherical mound of sand that Harry had, in a last attempt to untwist the shattered remains of his right arm, concentrated though the white pain and tried his best to think. The basilisk venom he had been _dosed_ with in second year had thus far kept him safe from every poison he had encountered, but Harry hadn't done anything as brash as to purposely inject himself with every conceivable venom, poison, or potion he could lay his hands on. Luckily, he hadn't seemed to be suffering any adverse effects due to poisoning, so Harry focused on his arm. Harry had known that the more complicated wand movements for higher levels healing charms were impossible for him to perform with his left hand, and though he was skilled in wandless magic, it was hexes and curses he was apt at, he was barmy at regular healing spells as it were. In desperation, Harry squeezed his eyes and hissed through his teeth:

'' _HEAL!''_

It wasn't the most original thing to say, but Harry forgave himself due to the situation at hand. The carnage that was his arm had done exactly that, and though he had to go to a Mediwizard afterwords and get his bones vanished because the healing had been so bastardized and crude, Harry was alive.

It was then and there Harry decided two things: he would never again ignore anything in his arsenal based off of the fear and prejudice of others, and that in the future, he would be more prepared for unexpected situations. Though Moody was a bastard, Harry'd wished he would have been more vigilant in face of the wretched nundu. He remained in Egypt for seven years, and at 25 returned briefly to Britain.

Ginny had saved herself for him, although he had told her she had to do no such thing before he left, and cried joviently into his arms upon his arrival. She hadn't aged much, and Harry noted she had only gotten more beautiful with the passage of time. It was then, that he realized, he didn't love her. The prophet run flush with gossip the moment his return was spread. ' _When will Lord Potter propose?', 'When will our Saviour pop the question?', 'What will The-Man-Who-Conquered do now that he's back in England?'_ And wasn't that title a laugh- Harry was sure a muggle war lord by the name of Genghis Khan had already taken that sobriquet _._

While sitting in the burrow, surrounded by friends and pseudo-family, Harry thought about the Prophet, about all the expectations laid upon him. He thought about how he was asked to become Minister, and then, after his refusal, pushed towards becoming an auror. He thought about Ginny's lips brushing against his, and the way his stomach used to flutter and how his face had heated. On Christmas, wearing a new knit jumper courtesy of Mrs. Weasley, Harry found himself wishing he were back with the nundu.

In the time that he was gone, Harry had met people of every variety and had faced many world views and teachings- to be back with people who seemed to blind themselves with their prejudices and unfound hate irked him to the umph degree. But Harry would be lying if he said that was the only reason for his newfound apathy.

It was _boring._

The Weasley's hadn't acted differently from normal, and that was what annoyed Harry the most. He tried explaining parselmagic, about how it could heal and protect. Harry then had been met with narrowed eyes and cautioned: _'Better not show anyone else that, Harry. We've known you for a long time so this must be a mistake- quickly stop it before anyone else sees.'_

Harry didn't love the Weasleys. But he was fond of them.

He had spent his life groomed and conditioned to face off Voldemort- to sacrifice himself doing so, and now that the big bad to end all big bads was dead, he found himself in search of purpose. Harry didn't resent Dumbledore for his manipulations that grew clearer as he aged, and was even mildly impressed he had been lead on such a tight leash. While he traveled, Harry had been able to immerse himself in new, shiny things, and was often distracted. Harry had been running, from Dumbledore's legacy, from Britain, from any responsibility that were time and again shoved upon him.

He didn't break up with Ginny immediately.

She was safe.

The day after christmas Harry ventured into Gringotts and did what he had been putting off for years. Once again, the Prophet ran stories of him going in to retrieve the Potter betrothal rings, and later, when he left, Harry would regret not glamouring himself. He hadn't because he was unsure of how the Goblins would react, and after the incident with Helga's cup, he knew he was on thin ice with the small, toothy creatures. After many hours of tedious paper signing, stamping, arduous truth oaths and blood tests, Harry found himself in the possession more money than he could ever dream to use, four lordships and their respective gaudy rings, and a gargantuan pile of artifacts and books of varying rarities and usefulness.

Harry was mollified by the sheer hard amount of wealth he had come in possession of, and to the combined amusement and annoyance of the golins, he had all of the contents moved into a singular vault. Harry then spent a pretty penny -not that it mattered anymore, with the gratuitous amount of gold he owned- to get a full audit of the vault. He made sure to tip nicely, and had the auditor swear an oath not to divulge any secrets of what they may or may not find.

After that Harry had done his best to study the mass befuddlement that was wizard politics, ediqit, and dove into his own familial history.

Years had passed, and he still remained a ghost to the general population of wizarding Britain. Harry had told Ginny that after what happened with the war, he wasn't sure that he could love her like she deserved. He apologized for making her wait so long, and swore that he would always look after her the best he could. Ginny eventually conceded, and though his relationship with the Weasleys as a whole had frayed, they still were on speaking terms.

Harry had lost most contact with Hermione after he revealed that he'd been studying magics of a more questionable nature, and had only frequently spoke with Neville and Luna. The letters between Hermione and him had gotten few and far inbetween- it wasn't an abrupt ending, it was one that flickered and faded tell the last letter she said ended with a softly scrawled farewell.

He still kept tabs on her though, on the Weasleys, on Neville, on Luna, and even little Teddy. They were his friends, and family or, well, had once been, and though he couldn't bare being around their bigoted views after his exposure to the rest of the world, they were _his._ Harry set up protection wards for them, made sure they had enough coin to send their grandkids to Hogwarts, and quietly made sure any troubles that would otherwise present themselves towards them _disappeared._

Harry had once again set out to travel after he'd eliminated the remaining murmur of death eaters that skulked around the corners of Knockturn and other dreary, dark places.

It was when a 35 year old Harry who looked no day over 20 coughed a mouthful of blood into his sleeve as he lay at the steps of a crumbling Greek temple that a true smile arched across his face. His chest ached, his breath was wet and sticky and he knew he was on his last leg. It wa the first time in years, that he had felt _this alive._ Pushed to his limit, not knowing if he'd survive to see the next sunrise.

In front of the downed wizard an impossibly skinny figure stoon hunched and steady. It was withered and gaunt, barely recognizable as female. It was dressed in a grayed toga and had wiery black hair that spindled off of it's leathery skin in greesy spools. It's eyes, Harry noted with both interest and unease, were sewn shut. As was its mouth- stitched closed in thin, golden threads. The creature- for to call it a woman would be wrong-, lifted it's hads towards Harry palms turned outwards. The left, a singular pale eye blinked slowly, long lashes framing a pupil that spun around rapidly as if it couldn't focus. The right palm had a large gash across it- one which peeled back into crowded teeth that formed into a bastardized grin. A thin, wet tongue darted in and out, and the creature took a long, lumbering step towards Harry before stopping.

"Moirai," Harry intoned, eyes narrowed. His vision was hazy from the beating he had taken, but he was sure that what stood before him was something greater than he had initially imagined.

" _Harry Potter,"_ The Creature whispered, it's voice was unused, cracking slightly, yet it held the slick properties of oil and something far too profound and otherworldly for Harry to fully grasp. _"Fate Favouried child, poor broken child."_

"Broken?" Harry scoffed. "Maybe today, but that's thanks to the protections of this temple. The Ancient Greeks were some nasty warders." His eyes filled with mirth. "Give me a day and I'll be right as rain. You on the other hand," He gestured weekly at the creature. "Need at least a week. See a good Mediwizard, some pepper up would do you good."

 _"_ _You have been touched by death,"_ The thing went on. Harry froze in place. "and you've mastered it. _Fate Favouried child, sweet broken child."_ The creature took another step. Harry found himself unable to move, and could do nothing but look on in wide eyes as the thing stretched out it's arm and placed one of Its long, pale hands on his shoulder. Harry expected pain, for it to squeeze and snap bone. However the Moirai's hand was nearly light as the air itself, and Harry could only feel the magic of the creature gently push against his own. It was a tepid thing- it neither flowed or sparked brashly. Harry had never felt magic like this before, it was akin to a calm endless well, and at the same time, it was nothing.

" _You've been alone, twisted to the will of another, than abandoned. Without place, without purpose, fate favoured child, your binds hold you tighter than you know."_

"I'm not alone," Harry challenged despite himself. He looked into the eyeless sunken sockets of the Moirai. "I have friends."

 _"_ _You have no friends, Harry Potter."_

Harry blinked. Having an ancient creature outright tell him he was friendless was both unexpected and somehow liberating. "Really," he pursed his lips. He had Hermione, and the Weasleys. They never talked anymore- but Harry had made sure they were set up for any sort of future.

" _People are not dolls, Fate Favoured. You may smile, and be fond of those who you allocate yourself with. You buy them clothes, you give them money, but I see you, Harry Potter. I look into your soul, into your magic, and you are alone. A tool whose use has been fulfilled, lacking purpose and motivation. For all the chances you've had, and all the more that you haven't, you've never loved. You're empty."_

Harry bristled, unable to tune to words out. The creatures second hand rested on his other shoulder, strationing his form up. It was so gentle, so sickenly gentle. "I have people I care about."

" _But,"_ It continued in a monotonous drawl. " _You care, you do care. I can see that. You care for them one might a painting or fine wine. You like them because they acknowledge you, you like them because you can visit when you please and be unbound. It would be no different had they been art that you checked up on, once every couple of years to dust and shine."_

Harry's smile dropped, and his emerald eyes grew sharp. "You make it _ssss_ ound like I have _ssss_ ome _ss_ sort of pathology."

" _You've been alone for so long, Fate Favoured. But there are others just as lonely as you."_

"Trying to tell me I'm not special then?" Harry sneered. "And what's with this 'Fate Favoured' bollocks? I can hear the capitols."

 _"_ _But you are special, Master of Death, Boy-Who-Lived, you are Fate Favoured,"_ The Moirai rested it's temple on Harry's own. " _And I,"_ It drew its head back, before slamming it against Harry's forehead in a blinding smash. The last thing Harry heard before his world faded into darkness was a gentle whisper. Like what a mother would tell her babe before putting him to bed.

 _"_ _And I, I am Fate."_

[BLACK BOX] Harry Potter wondered if he would be a dragon animagus not because of the piles of gold he owned, or even because of the knowledge he sought to accumulate, but because his hoard was one of people. He liked it when he was noticed, he liked it when he was treated well. He liked it when people had trust and faith in him- not blind, foolish faith that the ministry semed to crave, but the select affections of the few who he had deemed interesting. He had grown up with nothing, Harry hadn't even known his name wasn't Freak until elementary. Harry would treat his horde right, he would never let them be in the state he had been when he was younger. They'd be taken care of, they'd be safe. He'd treat them right, he cared about them. They were _his_ , after all.


	2. Not a Petting Zoo

_September 3rd, 1942_

Azkaban was a cold, dark place. But most of all, it was silent. Cells were placed far enough from each other that it was impossible to hear the fervent mutterings of fellow prisoners, and many had even lost their own voice to equal shares of unuse, and throat tearing screaming. To some, the hollowing shriek of dementors that loomed and patrolled the halls had even grown comforting. It was an awful, putrid sound, but is was noise, and it meant, that there was in fact, still something out there, even if it was a twisted, amortal prison guard. The only constant sound besides the sporadic wailing, was the soft lapping of waves against stone and the muted trickle of rain that never seemed to stop falling. Even the gruel and potions that were administered to keep prisoners alive but just so, appeared in a dull, clay bowl that seemingly materialized while they were asleep. The guard who distributed rations was never seen, and many thought that it was a spell that delivered the food- it was impossible to predict when the next meal would be served.

If a wizard was lucky enough to live past their sentencing, the lively noise of the outside world that they so dearly craved while being incarcerated would often be too much, and most ended up becoming recluse, introverts, and developing some sort of agoraphobia. It was thus, that Chester Blackwood who was the only wizard who had conducted a post Azkaban interview after his six year sentencing with the Daily Prophet, and later published author of-How To Survive Azkaban and Retain ⅓ of Your Sanity- that had been subsequently banned, had stated:

 _"Always remember to talk. Don't scream, don't yell- don't stay silent because than you might forget how to use your own voice- and in there, that's all you have. Talk, even if you have to refer to yourself in third. Call yourself by your name- because nobody else will. Once you're in there- you're not a pureblood, or a muggleborn, or even a wizard or witch._

 _I sometimes wondered if I was human at all,_

 _I was just a name- that was mine, a name, my name._

 _And that was enough."_

Morfin Gaunt was not an intelligent man. He was at least able to recognize that much himself. He seldom read the Prophet, and had therefore missed the above article which may have made his stay slightly more comfortable. Luckily for Morfin, the inbreed wizard already had the habit of talking to himself. Not that anyone would realize he was uttering words and not merely hissing. However to him, it was their fault for not understanding the nobel tongue of Slytherin, and Morfin found snakes better conversationalists anyway. At least they would listen to him, and follow his orders. They recognized him for his noble heritage.

Morfin Gaunt huddled into himself in the far corner of his cell, his fractured mind trying and failing to go over the events that had occurred only a month prior. He had been released from Azkaban after hexing that filthy muggle Riddle. Morfin hadn't understood why he got a sentence, if in trouble at all, for what he'd done. He didn't regret it- Merope the little slag should have known better than to be enamored with some poncy muggle. However three long years of being in Azkaban had dissuaded Morfin from openly practicing hexes on muggles. Morfin had sworn to be more careful. He'd make sure he wouldn't be caught, had any muggle bothered him in the future. Yet a month ago he'd killed the Riddles, slewn them like the swine they were.

He had killed them, killed them for tainting Merope and daring to sully the Slytherin line. He'd known she'd lain with Riddle, slut she was. He'd killed them- proclaimed so to the auror's who found him cackling at the scene of the crime. So why then, did Morfin feel the situation was odd? Before he could fully grasp the suspicion that had arose within him, the thought was lost and the cross eyed wizard devolved into shrill laughter.

 _"Snakey snakey, why are you so still?"_ Morfin glared at a thin crack that lay jagged on the stone floor. _"Come, little thing, you don't want old Morfin to kill you too, right?"_ The crack, as it was a crack, did nothing. Morfin's face twisted in rage, and he slammed his dirty fists into the ground, hissing in indignation. His knuckles were already cracked, and dry blood flecked off at the force of the pounding, reopening barely closed wounds. _"Silly serpent, to ignore me is to seek your end, it is me who you don't want to offend."_ Morfin giggled at his rhyme, thinking it something fantastic, and ignored the sting of his hands.

Harry looked blankly at the man in front of him, unable to muster an ounce of pity. He had seen this man in dear Tom's memories, and even though Morfin hadn't butchered the Riddles, he had many heinous crimes to his name. Merope wasn't the only one who liked using trickery to garner the ' _affections_ ' of muggles. She, however, had at least left Riddle alive after. Morfin was far more brutal in his lascivious ways, and Harry suspected that if the ministry had discovered those particular crimes, he would have gotten the kiss rather than life in Azkaban- not that he would live much longer.

Harry was wearing hooded, worn robes that had seen better days. They were dusty, moderately ripped, and clearly patched by someone who wasn't an expert seamster and cared more for function, rather then appearance. Overall Harry was dressed remarkably like the inhabitants of the prison. Harry forgave himself for his haggard appearance though, as he had woken three days prior, bleeding, disoriented, and flush with confusion.

OoO

 _September 1'st, 1942_

Because if waking up in the middle of a field in Merlin knows where was bad, it was worse without a wand, one shoe, and a pounding headache. To top of the fantastic feeling of dissonance, Harry's scar ached, something that hadn't happened since the defeat of Voldemort. The smell of sheep was potent, most likely saturating his clothes, Harry noted, and leaving it's barnyard stench to linger for days. Harry squinted, and glanced up towards the glowing sun.

Disoriented, alone, and dumped in what appeared to be a field, Harry wondered what the bloody fuck happened last night. As he was caught up in thought Harry felt a horrible wet sensation against his check and yelped-not that I would ever admit that- and turned around in his bloodied robes to come face to face with a pair of yellow, bar-pupiled eyes.

Behind Harry a herd of miniature little cloven-hoofed creatures stared up at him in what appeared to be fascination. Harry's brief exploit to the petting zoo in kindergarten when Dudley had begged and Petunia hadn't been able to find a sitter, told him that they were 'pygmy' goats. There were fourteen in total, their coats varying from caramel brown and white to black and auburn. The particular one whose tongue was lopping to the side, that had just slobbered all over Harry, appeared smaller than the rest. It blinked.

Harry blinked.

Avoiding making eye contact with the battalion of caprine soldiers Harry sat up, and grimaced at the sharp spike of pain. Two ribs fractured at least. The Master Of Death pushed a goat away that had taken to nibbling on the fringes of his dragonhide robe- not that it mattered, since it was busted beyond simple repair- and moved to summon his wand.

Harry watched in mild horror as it was wrenched from the jaws of one particularly orange goat, and swore to buy a proper wand cleaning kit once he could. The death stick, through all the years it existed, Harry doubted it had been subjected to such disrespect. The wizard stood up, shaking slightly, and searched for a shepherd, or the person who was watching the creatures. Surely, they wouldn't just be left to roam by themselves? The little goat that had licked him bleated in indignation at being ignored and butted it's baseball sized head Harry's foot. As it was his shoed foot, Harry ignored it and continued thinking.

The creature- the Moirai, had head-butted him. If that wasn't enough to be classified as extremely odd, Harry didn't know what was. The Moirai were a rare mythical best thought to be amortal like dementors and lethifolds, like banshees, they could talk and communicate. They had a strong prophetic nature and used to be herald as oracles, though they had grown scarce in the last thousand years. When the Moirai did fight, they used magic- profound and ancient, and definitely not melee head-buts.

Harry's robe was buggered as a piece of clothing, but the pockets were fine. Harry had enlarged them to an exceptional degree, and had them professionally charmed and enhanced. Ever since… the incident that had happened in Egypt, Harry kept a sizable supply of potions, gold, and artifacts on him should anything happen.

…

…

After successfully casting a diagnostic spell and healing himself to a functioning degree, Harry did his best to mend the fabric of his clothes. He'd gotten into many battles with creatures and experienced so much shit over the years, Harry could probably outwrite Gilderoy Lockhart using actual tales from his life instead of fictitious drivel.

Harry sighed, and eyed the goats. Unable to sense anyone, and figuring he was relatively alone, Harry reached into his pocket and withdrew a blank, folded yellowed sheet. He unfolded it with practiced ease, smoothed the rumpled surface, and held it outstretched. Harry quietly hissed _"Mischief managed,"_ and a global map bloomed on the surface of the wan parchment. Harry had taken an interest in the moderately unexplored realm of cartography magic after studying the genius work the Marauder's had done on their infamous Map. This one was unique to Harry. It was in nowhere detailed as the Hogwarts map was, and only had countries, larger bodies of water and rivers, major magical and muggle cities and establishments, notable ruin sites, and danger zones. Harry had keyed it too himself, and was mildly surprised to see Harry J. Potter appear over Aberdeenshire Scotland.

After taking a moment to gather himself, Harry folded the map back up, and put it away. It wasn't the first time he had been involuntarily teleported, but he wondered how he managed to get back to Scotland from Greece without getting spliced to hell and back.

The Master of Death's stomach rumbled.

Harry was hungry- he hadn't felt this famished in ages. He also needed to get a checkup via Mediwizard, but that could wait until the morning. Harry had enough power left to apparate to Hogsmeade from where he was, and decided he could get a check up after he ate and slept. He gave the goats one final bemused glance, and vanished from the grassy plane.

[BLACK BOX] Morfin Gaunt thought Merope's silly infatuation with the muggle Riddle was inane. Even though the man was wealthy, they were wizards of noble blood. They were part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, they would rise back in power with time, where the Riddles would die and be forgotten, lost to history and memory alike. He understood her lust, though. Morfin would often find a pretty muggle lass and allow her to experience what it was like to bed a wizard, but he made quick work of them after he was finished. Merope's 'love' though? Absolutely ridiculous.


End file.
